


Useless Man

by HarveyWallbanger



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Arkham Asylum, Crossdressing, Drunk Sex, Fisting, Implied Sexual Assault, Implied Violence, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Incidental heterosexual content, Intoxication, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, Lingerie, M/M, Object Insertion, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pseudo-Necrophilia, Public Sex, Rimming, Trauma, Watersports, incarceration, psychiatric hospital, terrible people doing terrible things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-01 13:06:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 14,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10922400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: Ever-giving.





	1. Boot-licking

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MillicentCordelia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MillicentCordelia/gifts).



> This is the first time I've done something like this, so please bear with me, Dear Readers. Sixteen chapters, one posted every three days until the natal anniversary of the fabulous Millicent Cordelia. Warnings and tags will be added as applicable.  
> The title of the story and the chapter headings are taken from Leigh Bowery's song, Useless Man.  
> I am not involved in the production of Gotham, and this school is not involved in the production of Gotham. No one pays me to do this. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and good night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It does what it says on the tin. The pairing is Alfred Pennyworth/Reggie Payne.

It began as a game. Get pissed, play around. Play at being the commanding officer, and give each other orders. The alcohol made it all right, you see. They were no longer responsible for themselves. It was the service, in miniature: you gave up your will- happily- and then, you could do anything. Absolutely anything was possible.  
The game's still in there, in Alfred's bones, folded, slumbering, waiting to be woken by a command. Like Sleeping Beauty, with a kiss. Having Reggie near him again makes it stir, tremble in a fitful sleep.  
Reggie, of course, means more than one thing when he evokes memories of the service. A junkie's double-talk. It was what always made Reggie so amusing; his ability to say one thing and transparently mean another. Alfred doesn't need an invitation. Just an order.  
“On your knees, soldier.”  
The roughness in Reggie's voice is like literal friction, rubbing Alfred in all of the wrong places. Sticking a finger in a wound to prove it to yourself that it's actually there. That you were really hurt. That it happened as you remember. That your life was ever your own.  
He's there, with his face pressed to Reggie's crotch. Not doing anything. Not yet. It's the possibility that makes it all so horrible and so wonderful. From here, they could go anywhere. He doesn't dare look up at Reggie.  
He makes himself look up. His chin wants to fall, but he doesn't let it.  
In the old days, it would have been simple. Suck Reggie off. Probably come in his pants in the process. Even the alcohol couldn't totally blot out the fire of youth. They were so young. Age has given Alfred all of the fear he never had in those days. Funny how it's gone backward in that respect. He's fifty, and he's hesitating like a kid.  
“Forget how to do it?” Reggie asks. His voice is liquid with amusement, but there's something jagged underneath. The tide sounding over an unforgiving shore.  
“No,” Alfred says softly, “I remember.”  
He goes lower still, down on his hands and knees. The toe of Reggie's shoe is gray and smooth from abuse. Once, they polished their boots until their fingers ached before inspection. Nothing is what it once was.  
Alfred's tongue is dry, and the leather is so very bitter.


	2. Piss-drinking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does what it says on the tin. The pairing is Jim Gordon/Harvey Bullock.

Even after his time in vice, his seemingly-interminable stretch in homicide, the satin numbness of a ten-year bender, Harvey can still be shocked. His voice rises comically:  
“You wanna what?”  
Jim gives him that look. The Sphinx look. The look that says that he knows everything, and Harvey knows nothing, which he wears with such self-assurance that Harvey's ready to believe it, and entrust himself to Jim, body and soul. Then, Jim gives Harvey that other look. He was just kidding about knowing everything, but Harvey still knows nothing, is just a dumb schmuck who could sell his soul for a clue and still remain totally oblivious to what the fuck was going on.  
“I want you to piss on me.” And fuck if Jim doesn't make it sound like the thing Harvey would sell his soul to know.  
But there's something else he needs to know, first. “Why?”  
Jim shrugs, too easy, too fluid. “I've always wondered what it's like. I trust you.”  
This is what they do in dank basements downtown, a single lightbulb swinging from the ceiling like a hanged man. Or dark penthouses uptown, with velvet wallpaper and patent leather couches and two-way mirrors. This is heaven or hell. It's not earth. It's not mere mortals like Harvey. And it certainly isn't with guys who look like Jim.  
“I could empty the bottle over your head, and you'd get the same effect,” Harvey mutters. To punctuate, he downs his drink, pours himself another.  
Jim shrugs again. “If it's not your scene, I understand.”  
“Oh, it's my scene,” Harvey laughs, surprises himself by laughing, “I'm just starting to wonder if this isn't some elaborate plan to blackmail me.”  
“For that to work, you'd have to be capable of feeling shame.”  
Fuck you, Jim. “Fuck you, Jim,” he says, his voice turning to whiskey in his ears. The air reeks of whiskey. The room is whiskey-colored. If he ever had any shame, it's dead, and its ashes were scattered to the wind. He stands, brings his hands to his zipper. “You want it, come and get it.”  
But Jim laughs at him. “It's something you work up to. Sit back down.”  
Harvey can only obey.  
Jim finishes his drink, puts the glass aside. He kisses Harvey, hard and messy, his hands on Harvey's neck, his chest.  
“Not too much,” Harvey murmurs, “Not so much, or I won't be able to do what you want.”  
“Oh, it takes more than this to get you going,” Jim says.  
Halfheartedly, Harvey thinks that he should hit him. That's not what he wants, though. He doesn't want anything, but what Jim tells him to want.  
Jim takes off his shirt, moves Harvey's hands over his body. Reminds Harvey of why he's giving it all up. He digs his fingers into Jim's flesh. Jim pushes back against him, punishingly hard. Hard enough to punch through the alcohol and the twenty years between them and everything Harvey's seen and done, and shock him like he hasn't lived, at all.  
“Stand up,” Jim whispers, his voice beginning to waver a little. Sometimes, even Jim looks uncertain. Maybe just for a moment, and maybe not so much that anyone else would notice, but Harvey knows. Jim might know everything, but Harvey knows Jim.  
Jim begins to kneel, but Harvey stops him. Holds him up, and pulls him close, and kisses him. There's one thing he knows that Jim doesn't and can't. Patience. Jim tries to push him, but Harvey holds him steady. Kisses him gently and slowly, like they're both new. Like he's not a broken-down heap of regrets, half-dead everywhere that matters. Like Jim's not on his way to being that, himself. Jim lets go. Lets Harvey touch him, adore him, inhabit him. When he puts his hand between Jim's legs, Jim gasps. The air's clogged with whiskey, but Harvey can still hear Jim say his name.  
“Get on your knees,” he hears himself tell Jim.  
He looks at Harvey, surprised, possibly even betrayed. He's breathing heavily, his mouth open like an animal's. His eyes don't leave Harvey's as he kneels.  
It occurs to Harvey, too late, that he's probably going to get piss on his living room floor. When it does, he almost laughs. Somehow, that's the last thing he has to worry about. He takes out his cock.  
The wrongness of the situation hits him immediately. It makes him hesitate in body if not in mind, like in a dream you know is a dream. If you piss in the dream, will you wake up with the sheets wet?  
Jim doesn't tell him where to aim. The remaining grains of Harvey's pride are rubbing at him angrily, and he's getting tired of wanting to do what Jim tells him, anyway. Then, Jim opens his mouth. Oh.  
“That's what you want?”  
Jim closes his eyes.  
Harvey moves closer. In a way, it's a relief. Now, he doesn't have to worry about the floor.  
It comes out quickly, probably too quickly. Without much conviction, he tries to slow down, but of course, you can't really do that. Piss drips down Jim's chin, his throat. Oh, Jesus.  
When he can, he stops. “What's it like?” he asks.  
Jim swallows, shakes his head to collect his thoughts. He shrugs. “It's like hot, bitter water.”  
“But, I mean, is it, like, doing anything for you?”  
“Are you finished?” There's a hungry snag in Jim's voice. You'd mistake it for anger if you didn't know better.  
“Almost.”  
When he is, it's almost like he's come. He gasps with relief. He had no idea that he was holding so much in. Then, Jim's licking the head of his cock; then, taking it in all the way. Doing it with his mouth and his hand, breathing out hard through his nose. It's good, but it's not what Harvey wants.  
“Come on,” Harvey says, in the voice he used to use to roust drunks, gentle with understanding and shame and the hot terror that this would one day be him, “Get up.”  
Jim looks up, then stands, then regards Harvey again. This time, in his eyes, for just a flash, is the fear that he actually doesn't know anything at all.  
Harvey kisses him.


	3. Finger-frigging

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does what it says on the tin. The pairing is Jim Gordon/Harvey Dent. This story takes place in a simpler time-- season one.

He really should have said something to security. Jim's developing a reputation as a dangerous man.  
On the other hand, Harvey likes to take care of these kinds of things himself.  
Jim slams open the door to Harvey's office, steaming like a bull, its hide bristling with metal spikes and bright with blood.  
“Jim,” Harvey says, smiling pleasantly, standing to close the door behind Jim, “What brings you to the District Attorney's office?”  
In old stories, they say that you can compel a werewolf to regain its human form by throwing clothing at it. Maybe it works that way with human beasts. Treat them like people, and they no longer have the capacity to rage.  
“You sold me out,” Jim says, likely far more quietly than he wants to.  
“Yes,” Harvey agrees, with a nod, “I know, and I'm very sorry. So, what- have you come here for revenge? At my place of work, Jim? It would have been better to follow me home the other night. Or stake me out, and lie in wait. Jump me in the parking garage. Make me pay. And you can't be that upset, because you waited a whole two days until the workweek began again.”  
Harvey hadn't noticed, but he's gradually been getting closer to Jim. For his part, Jim hasn't moved. It's probably a test. Men like Jim like this sort of thing. However it goes down, whoever flinches first is the loser. Harvey, of course, always plays to win.  
“Or maybe,” he says, and he feels his smile change, imperceptibly, “it's more fun if you do it in a public place. I mean,” he turns his head slightly toward the door, “anybody could walk in. And what would they find, Jim? What is it that you'd like them to see?”  
For a second, Jim looks cornered, but then, he's back to playing cool. He's always so very cool, and so very hard. A glacier, not a man. “It sounds like you've given this some thought. Maybe you're the one who wants someone to walk in on us. That it, counselor? Am I pushing some secret button of yours?”  
“Oh, Jim,” Harvey shakes his head, “you know me- I don't have any secrets. Harvey Dent's the cleanest man in Gotham. If you want to know something, you can just ask. I cannot tell a lie.”  
His expression changes, and he looks cornered again- though, in a different way, now. Like Harvey's the interloper, like he's pushed his way into Jim's space, huffing and puffing, promising to rain down righteous fury, et cetera. “What do you want from me?”  
“Me, Jim? Why, I don't want anything. You came to me, remember? Here's some advice I was given in law school: never ask questions you don't already know the answer to.” Harvey grabs Jim by the shoulders, kisses him, hard enough to make Jim breathe out sudden and rough. Then, Jim relaxes, opens his mouth, sucks Harvey's tongue, licks his lower lip.  
Harvey laughs. “That's right, Jim. I think you need a little more, though, to feel like you've gotten back at me.”  
Jim's eyes widen, then his heavy eyelids come down. “Like what?” he asks in his hard voice.  
Harvey extends his hands, palms up. “You tell me.”  
“I don't have any condoms,” Jim says, with charming alacrity.  
“We'll have to improvise.”  
Harvey's always liked this kind of thing, just playing around with somebody. The tease is more satisfying than getting off. When you have someone dependent on you, for anything they can get, and they don't know exactly what it is they're going to get, it makes you feel like God. You could kill them, and they might even thank you, for the novelty of sensation. They get so wound up that they want it all. The weirder, the better.  
He's ready to let Jim have his way, but Jim, it transpires, is happier being bossed around. That's fun. He kisses Jim, the heel of his hand pressed into Jim's crotch. He yanks open Jim's collar, and bites him where no one will see. He smacks Jim's bare ass with a metal ruler, leaving long, rusty lines, beaded with prickling little blood drops, on his pale skin. He runs a letter opener down Jim's bare back, the blade just sharp enough to abrade the skin, and make him breathe heavily. He yanks back Jim's head and touches the blade to his throat. Jim's slack in his arms, his head falling back further, still; his breathing slowing as his eyes slip shut. Jim takes a fountain pen, pushed dry into his asshole, with a quiet groan. Harvey pulls it out, then pushes it back in; feels Jim shake. He licks his fingers, spreads Jim's legs, and pushes his fingers in. Jim starts, swallows the sound he was going to make.  
“Anyone could walk in,” Harvey whispers, changing his angle slightly, listening to Jim breathe, “After all of that, I forgot to lock the door.”  
Perhaps it's out of a desire for punishment- perhaps it's out of perversity- perhaps, he simply can't control himself-- but Jim lets his head fall forward, tightens around Harvey's fingers, and moans Harvey's name.


	4. Tit-tweaking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does what it says on the tin. The pairing is Harvey Bullock/Nathaniel Barnes. This takes place in season two, back when things were relatively normal.

The bartender actually tells them that they don't have to go home, but they can't stay there. The whole evening's a mass of clichés: two old cops getting blasted at a cop bar, closing the place down, getting thrown out with the trash.  
What's one more for Harvey's collection?  
“I've got liquor at home,” he mutters, almost embarrassed, drunk, but maybe not the right kind of drunk for this.  
Maybe not yet. But he's willing to get there.  
Barnes raises his eyebrows. Inebriated, his face smooths out. You begin to get an idea of what he looked like when he was young. You begin to believe that he was ever young. “You trying to pick me up, Bullock?”  
“Nah,” Harvey says, “my liquor's not that good.”  
Barnes laughs; it sounds like a sniff against the damp, frigid air. “Yeah. Sure. You can take me home.”  
The thing to do is to make a snide comment in return, but Harvey's realizing that this is the stupid kind of drunk. He wants to do self-defeating things like communicate sincerely. Stupid shit like that. In a part of his brain that's slightly smarter than the rest of him, he knows that this is a bad idea, so he doesn't say anything. Barnes is silent, too, all the way to Harvey's building, up the stairs, to his apartment door, inside, until Barnes says, his voice hoarse from drinking and from the late hour, “Getting buyer's remorse?”  
“No,” Harvey says, pouring a drink. He gives it Barnes. Then, he pours a bigger one. This is for him. He drinks. “No.”  
“Good.” Barnes downs his drink, then watches Harvey. It's like being interrogated without either of them breathing a word.  
Harvey puts his glass aside, takes Barnes' glass from him. When Barnes puts his hands on him, he's expecting it, he's numbed by liquor and fatigue, but he still starts. He feels the blood boil in his head, his throat redden.  
“Come on,” Barnes says softly, maybe amused, maybe pitying, and walks Harvey around so that he's leaning against the wall. Barnes looks at him. It's the interrogation room look. The 'Do I buy this?' look.   
He'd better fucking buy it, Harvey thinks, suddenly- not angry, but something other than what he was feeling before. He kisses Barnes.  
Barnes kisses him back, hard. Then, he's pressed against Harvey, all of him, hot, and immovable. Harvey lets himself be directed, probed, disarrayed. Barnes' hands are hard, grasping; his kisses bruise. Harvey's never been into pain, but there's a point everyone reaches, he's begun to think, where they just start to wonder.  
It's easy to wonder with Barnes, because he doesn't hesitate. Harvey supposes that he should feel taken advantage of. It's not being taken advantage of, though, if the other person just guesses, somehow knows what you're thinking of. Maybe it's sweating out of Harvey, like alcohol.  
Barnes shoves aside his collar, bites his neck. Sucks, like this is fucking high school, or like that's a thing that adults even do to each other. To spite himself, how stupid he fucking feels, Harvey moans. Turns his head to the side, to give Barnes more access. It hurts, but it's also fucking electric; nerves shorting out like a transformer struck by lightning. Barnes has a hand down his shirt. It occurs to Harvey to feel affronted- this isn't what men do with other men- but he's the stupid kind of drunk that makes him twinkle with the fucking simple virtue of self-knowledge. All he actually knows about himself, though, is that he likes this. So, he lets Barnes feel him up, kissing his mouth and his neck, pressing against him.  
He pinches Harvey's nipple.  
“What the fuck?” Harvey hears himself yelp.  
“Too much?” asks Barnes.  
“Yes, it's too fucking much,” Harvey says, clutching his shirt to himself like he's a fucking romance novel heroine. Shit. Way too fucking much.  
Barnes takes a step back.  
Harvey sighs. He didn't realize he was breathing heavily. “You can do it again,” he says, “Just don't try any other weird shit.”  
“Your definition of weird, and mine might not be the same,” Barnes says, close to him again, his hand again in Harvey's shirt. He's just resting it there, barely touching. When Harvey breathes, the motion of his chest makes Barnes' hand move, rub him gently.  
“No shit,” Harvey exhales.  
Barnes takes out his hand, licks his fingers, touches Harvey again. Harvey hears himself exhale again, a puckered rivulet of sound. Twists his head around like he's trying to unscrew it from the inside out. Fuck. It's too fucking much. It doesn't hurt, now- or, it does, but not in the same way. Barnes pinches him again, harder. Harvey feels himself reach out, put his hands on Barnes' ass, pull him close. Harvey falls against him.  
“Tell me to stop, if you can't handle it,” Barnes says.  
“Fuck you,” Harvey mutters. He kisses Barnes, long and deep, runs his hands over his body, suddenly hungry for him, for any part of him. Barnes holds him close, presses his hand between them, rubs at Harvey through his pants. Slowly. Too fucking slowly. Making Harvey breathe out again with that strangled sound. Barnes tips Harvey's head back, kisses his throat, pushes his shirt aside, runs his tongue, slow and rough over Harvey's breast. Barely above a whisper, affectionate, unsure, Harvey says it again: “Fuck you.”


	5. Love-biting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does what it says on the tin. The pairing is Nathaniel Barnes/Jervis Tetch. This story takes place within the continuity of my series, "Buttons and Bows".

There are no mirrors in Arkham. No real ones, anyway. In the bathrooms, there are sheets of polished metal foil, but you can't see yourself very well in those. At a distance, you become an Impressionist sketch, color daubed onto color. Up close, you're a Surrealist nightmare. It irks Jervis' vanity, but in a way, he feels that it suits him.  
The bathroom doors lock, which is absurd. Twice since he's been there, the guards have had to break them down, and carry somebody out. Later, he learns that the employees are obliged to use the same bathrooms as the inmates, which explains it. The whole situation amuses him. In Arkham, everything blends together.   
The inmates are supposed to be escorted to the bathroom by guards, but that never happens. If one asks, one is told to get lost.  
It's like hypnosis: so much of it comes down to people just not wanting to fight you. People may not be naturally evil or stupid, but they are lazy. They're so very lazy, and after several violent episodes leave both Nathaniel and himself with the threat of a fate worse than isolation hanging over them, it's time to give up luxury for convenience. If anyone notices that they're missing, no one bothers to seek them out.  
In the bathroom, Nathaniel pulls off Jervis' shirt, and kisses his mouth, his neck, his shoulders. Jervis knows without having to look that his skin is mottled in purples and reds. As soon as he thinks this, he feels Nathaniel bite him again. It's old pain, the pain of an old wound injured again. This is what they say it is to be in love: infatuation brings a sting, but when it's something to which you're used, the pain is that of a healing bruise. His body tells him that he's in love, and he believes it. He may not be able to see the proof, but it's there. It's under Nathaniel's mouth, his hands. It aches each morning and night, and whenever he turns his head. It's blood dragged to the surface, inside to outside. To kiss the mouth that bids it rise.


	6. Ass-licking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does what it says on the tin. The pairing is Jim Gordon/Oswald Cobblepot. This is a continuation of my story, "The Little Wheel".

If he was able to convince himself that it had been a dream, it's now a recurring one. Now, how does Oswald know on which nights Barbara's away?  
“Are you spying on me?” Jim asks, nonchalantly, sounding almost bored to himself. He should be furious. But fury doesn't come. Just this strange, foggy suspicion that neither angers nor pleases.  
Oswald just turns those pale eyes on him, rimmed in trembling lines of black lashes. He closes his eyes, drawing his lashes down like stage curtains, and opens them again. Looking satisfied with himself, he smiles.   
“No.” As though he doesn't have to spy, because he just knows. He can feel Jim, from miles away, and all that Jim feels. The idea hits Jim harder than he wants to think about. Oswald, far from him, turning on like a light in a dark house. Crossing the night, because he knows that nothing bars his way to Jim. He kisses Oswald, and Oswald becomes soft in his arms.  
And he is soft, Jim discovers, once he takes off Oswald's clothes. As thin as he is, his body has no edges under Jim's hands. He's like a switchblade that's been retracted. But he can still hurt Jim.  
A queer sort of pain, that rises through Jim's body, and makes him feel as soft on the inside as Oswald is, on the outside. The world's turned upside down. He takes Oswald to his bed. His and Barbara's. She's as much a ghost, now, as Oswald usually is. If Oswald's a light in a dark house, the house is haunted.  
Suddenly, Jim's shy. He can't stop thinking about what they did last time. It still doesn't seem real to him. This, now, is real. He's let Oswald undress him, though he can't look in his eyes. Oswald's hands are on him. There's noplace left for him to hide. This time, no prop would do. Whatever he does with Oswald has to be a matter of flesh and blood.  
He can't stop kissing Oswald. His body responds like something mechanical, pulled up and into Jim. He turns Oswald onto his belly, kisses the back of his neck, and feels Oswald rise, sighing. He lets his cock slip against Oswald's ass, then down, between his thighs. He thinks about the gun, how it looked, going in. He wants, but he doesn't. He is, he knows, afraid to want.  
He moves his mouth down Oswald's back, Oswald writhing under him. He spreads Oswald's legs, his hands on Oswald's ass, breath fanning onto Oswald's tailbone. Oswald exhales, rolls his head forward against the pillow. He says Jim's name.  
He says it again.  
He moans it when Jim's tongue touches his asshole. Jim licks him slowly. Pushes the tip of his tongue inside, feels Oswald's body contract. Licks lower down, toward his balls, and feels him tremble. Licks a wet line back up. Pushes his tongue in deeper. He thinks about the gun. How it looked, going in. How Oswald went from pink to red. It feels to Jim like Oswald has already had all of Jim, seen all of Jim that there is to see. But Jim knows that he hasn't had nearly enough of Oswald.


	7. Shit-stabbing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While the sexual assault occurs off-screen, it's heavily implied, and overall, this is an unpleasant story. Please use your discretion, Dear Readers.

It's like your own personal sex show. Better than that, because the show's really about revenge. It's enough about sex, though, to get you going. The redhead has a face like the back end of a bus, but she's not wearing much, and she has the same kind of dead-eyed charm as the girls working the docks and back rooms of clubs. That was the kind of girl you started with, back when you were too young to care where you were putting it, and sort of glad that some of them were old enough to be your mother. You could be yourself with broads like that. You wonder if that's where Falcone picked this one up, and if he knows that about you, and if he does, how it made him feel to put her in the room and let you watch her work.  
It makes you feel kind of weak inside, watching the old girl, watching the judge take his lumps, knowing that Falcone's watching you watch them.  
“This is something special, Carmine,” you say absently.  
Across the room, the judge's boy lies draped in satin on the floor, dripping blood. It's like a Renaissance tableau.  
If you didn't know better, you'd think you were being seduced.  
You turn around to face Falcone. “You didn't do all of this just to save that little piece from a shallow grave,” you say. You're figuring something out, and the rush toward knowledge makes you reckless enough to talk about Cobblepot like you would any other ho. No matter what that makes you in relation to him.  
But Falcone just says, “We're all pieces, in a game larger than ourselves.”  
“Uh-huh,” you say, “that's great, but this,” you gesture toward the window, “is personal.”  
“You don't like it?” Falcone says, too amused to think that this is the case.  
“Oh, I like it,” you laugh, you can't not, “I'm just wondering if after all of this wining and dining, you're gonna expect me to put out. Because, whatever Cobblepot might be doing for you, I know that he isn't worth all this.”  
“Now, that's where you're wrong. In over-paying for him, I'm getting something extra for my money. I'm making an investment.”  
“And what's that?” Your heart's beating like you don't know where this is going and you do know, and you're not sure it's where you want to be but you're in a hurry to get there.  
“Trust is everything.”  
“This is true.”  
“And like any other emotional quality, trust can be bought.”  
You want to argue, but upon reflection, you see that there's no reason.  
Falcone comes in close. You can smell his cologne. It's the smell of blood and money, concealed under crushed flowers and old wood. Like a bouquet trodden underfoot. Like a funeral parlor. “You trust me, don't you?”  
Behind the glass, the judge groans. His body falls to the floor with the sound of a mallet hitting dead meat.  
You laugh. “Not on your life.”  
Falcone laughs, too, from deep in his belly. He nods toward the window. You turn, just in time to see the domme greasing up an immense red strap-on.  
You look at Falcone. Momentarily, his gaze is soft, like he means it- like he means something. You don' know what. Your breath catches in your throat, waiting for his meaning to be revealed to you. Then, the corners of his mouth turn up sinisterly. You're relieved, but you're disappointed, but you also feel warm inside. Now, you laugh together.


	8. Mother-fucking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story takes place during the continuity of my series, "My Wife and My Dead Wife". As with the rest of the stories, there are certain implications that may disturb the reader. While nothing is stated outright, there are strong suggestions of past abuse and unpleasant undertones about Edward's mother. If any of that distresses you, please don't read this story. Thank you, and good night. The pairing is Edward/Oswald.

If you get Oswald in the right mood, anything is possible. Obviously, he has to be intoxicated- but in that sweet, elusive valley between perceptive- spiky- paranoid- and totally useless. It's chemistry. This was always Edward's favorite class. It was like magic! But magic, if it existed, would be unpredictable. This is better, because, it's magic with rules.  
“There's something I wanted to ask you,” Edward says. Oswald's eyelids have slipped down, his lashes throwing strange shadows down his cheeks.  
“What's that?” Oswald asks quietly.  
“Would you dress up for me?”  
“You want me to wear my coat to bed again?” Oswald's smile isn't a knife, but a picture of a knife. It reminds you of something dangerous, but it's not dangerous, itself.  
“Something different.”  
“Like what?” This is perfect. He's not wary or annoyed. He's curious. He's... welcoming.  
“Can I show you?”  
Oswald's eyes slip shut. He sighs, slightly irritated, but willing to be indulgent. “All right.”  
“I'll bring it out to you.” It's silly, but Edward doesn't want Oswald to see where he keeps these things. As though their place of rest were more precious than the objects, themselves.  
Oswald's amused, but he's not derisive. He's not disgusted. “Who does this stuff belong to?”  
“No one,” Edward says, too quickly, he knows, “I got it at a thrift shop.”  
“They must have given you some interesting looks.”  
“Will you?” Edward asks. Again, too quickly.  
Oswald sighs. “Fine. But I'm not doing anything weird.”  
Some would argue that this is the very definition of weird. Edward almost wants to ask what Oswald would consider weird, if not donning ladies' undergarments. “Shall I help you dress?”  
“Won't it be more fun for you if it's a surprise?”  
“Not necessarily.”  
“Fine. If you want to, you can help me.”  
It's not so different from undressing a cadaver. Oswald, who is usually like a snapping rubber band, can be so sweetly pliant, so patient. He sits on the edge of the bed, and Edward kneels to take off his shoes. He stands, and Edward takes off his jacket and his vest, pulls down his suspenders, unbuttons his pants. He sits again, and Edward takes off his pants, his socks. He lies back, and his hands over his face, suffers Edward to massage his knee. He pats Oswald's hip, and Oswald lifts his ass off of the bed, so that Edward can take off his underwear. Edward can't resist kissing a wet mark on Oswald's inner thigh. Mouthing the soft skin of his scrotum. Touching him as he does. He's getting ahead of himself, breaking a rule he didn't know was in place. It feels wrong, somehow. So, he keeps going. He allows himself to fellate Oswald to completion. It feels good to be liberal with himself.  
Oswald sits up, and he takes off Oswald's shirt and undershirt. He feels himself lick his lips absently, his hands on Oswald's waist.  
The stockings are silk, and have to be handled carefully. Once, in anger, he punched his thumb through one. Now, he only has a single intact pair. They're black, and still smell faintly of Fracas. Oswald stands, and Edward puts the garter belt on him, fastens the stockings into the garters. Edward supports him, and he steps into the panties. The bra, with its empty cups, should be comical, but it evokes a dead skin, emptied of the filling of life. In this way, it's stately, worthy of reverence.  
“How do I look?” Oswald asks indifferently.  
Edward kisses him. There's just a trace of perfume on the lingerie, but it seems to fill the air. It's filling Edward's head. There's no room for him in there, anymore; for his thoughts. He has to think with his body, now. His hands can feel the breasts that his mind knew weren't there. They're not Oswald's, though; they belong to the garment. The clothes are inhabited. They have their own body. They speak to Edward in that voice.  
He gets down on his knees. He presses his mouth to the crotch of the panties, feels Oswald's cock behind the material. He kisses wetly, hears Oswald exhale, feels Oswald's hands in his hair. Oswald has such delicate hands. They should have painted his nails. Coral. He should have had lipstick. Fresh perfume.  
Edward pulls down the panties far enough to take out Oswald's cock. He's not hard, but this isn't important. Edward just wants to kiss him, taste him.  
Oswald says that he needs to sit down, so Edward walks him backward to the bed. Sits Oswald down, as though Oswald can't do it, himself. Gently, Edward pushes him back, covers Oswald's body with his own. Puts his hand between Oswald's legs, and idly moves it up and down, as though he were touching a woman. Oswald sighs and quivers, puts his arms around Edward. Untucks Edward's shirt, and slips his hand up the back.  
His small, cold hand.  
Edward shivers.


	9. Spunk-loving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story takes place in the continuity of my series, "Buttons and Bows". The pairing is Nathaniel Barnes/Jervis Tetch.

Scarlet blood is thicker than water, clear- but where else dwells his sister dear?  
Love is a disease. It deranges the mind, like the plagues of old. Jervis is a man in love. That much, now, is clear to him. He's in thrall, now, to Nathaniel, a warm chalice for the blood of Alice.  
If Nathaniel is a chalice, then Jervis must drink.  
Nathaniel has him on his back, unnaturally strong hands holding his wrists above his head. Jervis can feel the pulse in the palms of Nathaniel's hands. A red mouth opening and closing, speaking to him. When he kisses Jervis, Jervis tastes blood. Whose it is, he's not sure. Still, he swallows.  
He drinks with his whole body. Blood, his science teacher once explained, is a tissue; a group of the same specialized cells. He thinks of that often, now, with Nathaniel on top of him. It's like he's wrapped in Alice's blood. It's like a shroud of red light.  
Nathaniel fucks him. He likes this, because he doesn't have to do anything but feel what his body gives him to feel. It hurts, even now, but he's begun to enjoy the pain. And all the rest. He knows now how to make it good for Nathaniel, how to make him finish quickly. He knows how to move against Nathaniel, how to make his body draw in tightly around him, and when to do it. Nathaniel is at his mercy, though it doesn't seem that way. It doesn't seem that way, when Nathaniel's holding his wrists over his head, battering Jervis' body with his. But this is the way it is. In hypnosis, one must look beneath what one is shown. This is the same. All the world is beneath the surface. What happens there is Jervis' secret.  
He'll take Alice any way he can get her. Nathaniel guards his blood jealously, and Jervis isn't stupid enough to try to get at it. But all things in the body depend upon blood. It's everywhere, all the time. It's like God. The breath that comes out of Nathaniel does so because Alice's blood trades old air for new. The cells in his mouth, lit up by her blood, are shed in his saliva. She's in his sweat, his urine. She's in his semen. This, Nathaniel cannot wait to give away.  
Jervis drinks with his whole body.


	10. Ball-busting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While nothing especially disturbing occurs on-screen, this story deals with the after-effects of abuse, torture, and general trauma, and may not be suitable for some readers. Please use your discretion.   
> This takes place within the continuity of my story, "Who's Been Wearing Miranda's Clothes?"

There's something wrong with his brain. That much is obvious. Though, he can't remember a time when he didn't feel the way he feels now, so he can't trace it, like, a thread or something, to what his brain was like before, to get back there. He just knows that he wasn't always this way. He doesn't know anymore what it's like to be some other way. It must be the opposite of how he is now. He used to sleep at night. That's easy enough to guess. He never felt sick, randomly, for no reason; nausea floating at him out of the air like a ghost. He didn't feel his chest seize like a fist when he smelled rubbing alcohol, or latex, or the air before an electrical storm. Or thought he did. His voice never sounded like this, either shrill or too quiet, like his mom, depending on what his father was doing. He didn't... kind of fall into a trance sometimes, come out of it not knowing where he was, or who was speaking to him. These are things he can take for granted. The rest, though, is more difficult. It's not a matter of something from that past no longer happening, but of everything now being some kind of mirror-image reversal. He's like a weird reflection of himself. Sometimes, it's actually like he's watching himself in a mirror. Sometimes, it's like he's not there at all.  
Sometimes, that's the best thing.  
With Tabitha, it's okay, because he loves her. If she's hurting him, it's just the way she is. He understands that. He used to be the same way. Now, he's no way, at all, but can still understand. Something he learned is that, if something happens to you enough, you can start to like it. Your body's smart, but it's dumb. You start to wish for all of those bad things to happen to you again, because you got used to them. You didn't even notice that you'd started waiting for them. So, he was lucky that he found Tabitha. Any other girl probably would have sent him packing, for being this way. Tabitha couldn't get enough. She made it fun, too. She was always laughing, giggling, even, telling him funny things when she was doing it to him. She'd kiss him, ruffle his hair, throw her arms around him. Over the muscles, her skin was soft, and she smelled good, and she had a girl's voice. If someone's going to talk to him while it's happening, it has to be a girl. If it's not a girl, it doesn't feel right. Even Barbara, for being a crazy bitch, was still a girl. If Tabitha let her play, too, it was all right. Tabitha was his girl, and he knew her. He knew what she was like. If Barbara was Tabitha's girl, that meant that it was okay. If Barbara always hurt him more, and she never said anything nice to him, and she slapped his face, that was okay, too. That was more than okay. Not that he'd tell her. If he'd told her, she might have stopped.  
They're both gone, now, and it's just him and Oswald in that big house. And, now, it's gotten weird.  
Because, he guesses, he needs to feel this way, and even though Oswald's not a girl, Butch will apparently take what he can get.  
“So, what is it, exactly, that you want me to do?” Oswald asks, rolling his eyes.  
“It's hard to explain.”  
“It can't be, if you made Tabitha understand.”  
“Tabitha just got it,” Butch says.  
“Fine. Do you want me to whip you, or something?”  
“That was only part of it. She...” he can't say it out loud. You don't say things like this out loud. “She made it all right to like it.”  
“To like what? Getting hurt? Okay, how?”  
“She was mean, but she was nice about it. She... did it because it was fun for her. When she hurt me, it was like I wasn't myself. She wasn't trying to do anything to me, to Butch,” God, it feels weird to say his own name, “I could have been anyone. It wasn't personal. So, she was nice. Do you understand?”  
“No,” Oswald sighs, “I guess I can try, though. What did she do that you liked?”  
“She'd tie me up.” The tips of his ears are hot.  
“Yeah.”  
“She'd hit me. Force me to tell her things.”  
“Force you to tell her things?”  
“About my life, before. About what happened to me.”  
“What happened to you when?”  
It's like Oswald struck him. “When Zsasz took me away.”  
“Oh,” Oswald says, “that. What did happen to you?”  
“I can't just tell you. You have to make me.”  
“What if I held a gun to your head?”  
“That wouldn't work. You have to actually hurt me.”  
“This is fucked-up,” Oswald says.  
You should talk, Butch thinks, but what comes out of his mouth is, “You think I don't know that?” in his mom's half-whisper, half-shriek.  
“Okay. Fine,” Oswald says, now no longer irritable, but cool, cold. He reaches down, grabs Butch by the balls.  
The immediate effect is to steal his breath. Then, comes crushing pain, spreading through his body. Nausea. Then, once it plateaus, becomes a constant wash of pain, Butch can breathe again. All he has to do is breathe, in fact, and keep breathing, and not make it stop. He could make it stop. He's bigger than Oswald; if he had to, he could snap Oswald's wrist, knock him out. Or he could just keep letting it happen. It could be over anytime Butch wants. Until it is, though, he doesn't have to do anything but feel it, and do whatever Oswald says.  
“I always wondered about that, actually,” Oswald says conversationally. For someone with small hands, he has a hell of a grip. The pain is so fine, edged in that weird relief you get, even while it's still happening. It's like something rotten that's still sweet. “I always wondered what Victor did to you. What did he do?”  
Butch doesn't say anything. Oswald tightens his grip. Butch groans. He thinks he says Oswald's name.  
“For a long time, I didn't know where I was,” Butch finally says, breathing slowly and deeply, “He was keeping me drugged. He said that it was because I'd been shot, and he'd had to remove the bullet. I didn't believe him, though, because I didn't feel any pain,” he takes in a long breath through his nose, “When you don't feel pain when you should, you think that it doesn't exist. Or like you cheated it. For I don't know how long, I didn't know where I was, or how much time had passed. Sometimes, he told me that it was days. Sometimes, he said that it was years. He said everyone I knew was dead, so no one would remember me, come looking for me. He said that we were the only two people on earth. Sometimes, I actually believed him. After a while, he brought me out of it. He said that I had to learn how to walk again, do everything again. He helped me. For a while, he was good to me.”  
“What happened next?” Oswald asks, sounding bored.  
Butch breathes. Oswald tightens his grip again. The border of Butch's vision begins to creep with black. “That's all I'm going to say.”  
“No, tell me more.”  
Butch grits his teeth. “That's all I'm going to say right now.”  
“Okay,” Oswald says. He lets go.  
The feeling of relief is so great that Butch can't speak at first. It's like an orgasm, but clean. He can still look at Oswald. He can't always do that when he comes in front of someone. Not anymore. There are tears in Butch's eyes. It's a physical reaction, so that's okay, too. If you can't control it, it's not your fault. He sniffs.  
Oswald makes a face. “Are you all right?”  
All Butch can say is, “Thank you.”


	11. Cock-sucking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does what it says on the tin. The pairing is Alfred Pennyworth/Lucius Fox.

Doing this in a bed is a rare enough thing. His mind should probably be elsewhere, but this is what strikes Alfred most immediately. After a while, it stopped being a matter of necessity, and became one of inclination. He'd started in the library, only for Lucius to object, and ordinarily, that would be that. Alfred's used to getting his way, or making do with nothing. Sometimes, nothing is preferable. There's pain in being denied, but it's pain you can step inside of, feel it wrap around you. It welcomes you, and you become it.  
It might be that he's gotten entirely too used to both having his way, and having nothing, because he found himself quietly saying, All right. Then, he was quietly walking with Lucius to his bedroom, the walk suddenly interminable, wondering with every step what was actually going to happen when they got there. Was it all a wind-up- easier to let Alfred down after a long walk, long enough to make him forget what was happening, and what they were doing, and how they'd got there?   
It might be working. Alfred's ready to accept whatever Lucius has to say with a brittle smile and a curt Goodnight. Let him draw it out a little bit longer, though. Let a little more time pass, though, before Alfred must do his duty.  
Then, there they are, at Alfred's door.  
“You know, it's all-” Alfred begins.  
He can't finish, because Lucius is looking at him, his expression soft, his eyes laughing- but gently. Not laughing at Alfred, at all. And if he were-  
Well, Alfred would just fucking let him. Glad of it, too.  
Alfred opens the door.  
Then, they're in the padded grasp of the room, with its cool darkness. Silvered light strikes cathedral shapes on the floor and walls. Among those shapes, they embrace, and they kiss, and Lucius loses his jacket, and Alfred loses his waistcoat, and Alfred can't remember what the fuck he had to be nervous about.  
It's a rare enough thing, doing this in a bed. With someone he actually likes. Who, he believes, likes him. That, alone, is weirder than anything else he could imagine doing with another person. Maybe that's what's giving him this tight, shivering thrill, all through his body, as he kisses Lucius' mouth, and they undress, and he's touching Lucius and Lucius is touching him. Oh, dear. The nerves are back. The only way to deal with something that's frightening you, though, is to rush right up to it, and give it something to be afraid of.  
He has his head between Lucius' legs, sucking him slowly. Probably too slowly for Lucius' taste, but Alfred has to go at his own pace. Even if it means he's fucking up. Especially if it means he's fucking up. Suddenly, that's all he wants to do. When nothing else is left for you, you can always find control in your own failure.  
But Lucius has no complaints. He moves to match Alfred's rhythm. He sighs in deep breaths, and sighs them out again. Alfred waits for him to lose patience, get rough, but it never happens. When Lucius comes, he says Alfred's name. Like he's reminding Alfred that he even has a name. Bringing him back to himself. As soon as he thinks this, Alfred's shocked to realize that this is exactly how he felt.  
But where had he gone?


	12. Fist-fucking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does what it says on the tin. There is a brief reminder that these characters are human beings who have bodily functions, but it's in my characteristically dainty style, so it shouldn't be overly offensive. The pairing is Jim Gordon/Nathanial Barnes, and takes place sometime in season two.

He wants to be punished. That's why he keeps coming to you. It occurs to you that you should start to feel used. But then- you invite it. You've made yourself into his confessor, so you have to take it all the way: accept his confession, and then make him pay for what he tells you.  
You have something different for him. You tell him so, and watch something rapidly turn on and then turn off behind his eyes. He looks trapped, then, because of what he's just let you see, and then, he's again empty.  
“Yeah,” Jim says, his voice low, “do it.”  
You take off his clothes. It's almost medical. He doesn't react, until you're touching him, like that gives him permission to actually be in his body. It gives him permission to feel with that body, you suppose. You caress his face, run your hands through his hair. You kiss him long and sweet. This is part of his punishment. He's not supposed to like it. If you make him like it, though, he's only doing as you wish. It's humiliating. It's exactly what he wants.  
You spend a long time on him, getting him warmed up. He's all but trembling in your arms, moving his body like he's trying to seduce you. His hips are liquid under your hands. He bares his throat. He turns around, presses his ass against your crotch. You run your hands down his belly, stopping short of his cock. You brush your finger against the line of his pubic hair, and feel his muscles contract. You jerk him off for a little while; idly, kissing his neck. You suck his earlobe. “Go to the table,” you say, breathing out hot over his skin, “Bend over.”  
He does what you tell him. He waits for you.  
You take off your jacket, and roll up your shirt sleeves. You snap on the rubber glove loudly. It sounds like a whip cracking. Jim turns his head toward you.  
If he's unsettled, he doesn't show it. He lets his head fall forward again.  
The first finger goes in easily. You pull it out, and add another. This makes him start a little, but then he eases back against your hand. You let him fuck himself for a while, slowly, your other hand on his hip. Slowly, you pull your fingers out, add more lube, push in three. Now, it's tricky. You have to mind how you position your fingers, or your hand will cramp up, and you'll both have your good time ruined. Jim makes a small sound of discomfort, but says nothing. He can tell you to stop anytime. He won't, though. He needs to see it through. Even though you could do anything to him. He is, you know, constantly balancing how much he might trust or distrust you at a given moment, and how much he needs what you do to him. Maybe one day, it'll no longer add up. What you'll do then, you don't know.  
You have most of your hand inside of him, now. You tell him to relax, and he has to, because you've given him an order. He spreads his legs a little bit more, and makes himself take it. You ask if you're hurting him. He says that it's all right.  
“That's not what I asked. If I'm hurting you, I'll stop.”  
“Don't stop.” His breathing's jagged.  
“If I think I'm going to do real damage, I'm stopping.”  
“Don't,” he says, too quickly, too hoarse, rubbed out.  
“Can you take anymore?” You almost don't know what his answer will be.  
Of course, he says that he can.  
You pull out your hand. The glove is streaked brown. You take it off, put on a new one, lubricate your hand. It takes some time, but you fit your hand inside of him, up to the bone in your wrist. Jim is breathing audibly, steadily and deeply.   
You let him stay like that. It's like he's meditating, or something. You almost want to ask him what it's like, but somehow, that has to stay with him. He might have given you partial ownership of his body, and he might be renting out his soul, but he hasn't sold it yet. The body's yours, but for now, what happens to all the rest is up to him.


	13. Lip-smacking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story takes place within the continuity of my series, "Buttons and Bows". The pairing is Nathaniel Barnes/Jervis Tetch.

It's sick how much you want him. How he can do this to you. Make you feel this way. You're immovable. You're the fucking hand of justice. Your blood is alive with righteous fury. You should be out there, making the criminals of this town afraid for their lives again. But you're not.  
You can't believe how good he looks to you. It's like your vision has altered, just to make you want him. It's the virus. It's some heretofore unseen complication. They know that viruses can get into your brain, and change its shape. They can even cause brain damage. Is that it? Are you damaged, now? You could collect yourself. You have moments of doubt. Not about your mission, but about whether this is the best way to go about it. You could go to the precinct, talk calmly with Bullock and Thompkins, make them see reason, make them see that Arkham just made it worse. There, you were tempted, beyond all earthly control. You could make a quip about the devil making you do it, but they might not appreciate that, from someone who's been where you have. You're not going to do that, though.  
What're you going to do?  
At night, when only the sound of his breathing decorates the silent air, you hear her laughing. She did this to you, you think. Laughing, she says that, no- he did this to you. This is what he does, she whispers on a heartbeat, he makes you think that you want it, that you're the one who's sick- but it's him. It's how he gets off. By making you into your own debaser. She's probably right, but you still don't want to hear it.  
What you want to do is-  
He's turned away from you. You bring yourself in close against his back, push his hair to the side, and kiss his neck. He murmurs: “What in dreams, could have transpired, for you to wake with such desire?”  
You don't tell him that you haven't been asleep, but lying there in the dark, thinking about how to get away from him. “Shut up,” you halfheartedly reply, and turn him onto his back. Under you, he's all soft skin, and delicate bone; too tall, too little flesh over too long a frame. He's sturdier than he looks, but he's still a skinny, weird-looking fuck. He's not your type. He never would have been your type if you were in control of yourself. You think of Jim Gordon, military posture the only thing keeping him from looking decadent. Golden hair, heavy-lidded eyes, an animal's grin; taut belly, tight ass just beginning to succumb to the softness of middle age. It makes you want to hate Tetch, but you can't quite get there. In your veins, she laughs.  
You think about Jim some more, because it makes you feel bad, and feeling bad has started to feel good. It could be him under you. Your hand's around his neck, squeezing, but not hard enough to do anything but excite him. Your hand's on his chest, rubbing the palm against his nipple. Your hand's on his thigh, drawing his leg up to bend at the knee. It's him you're going to fuck. It's him. If you can still think about someone you actually wanted, then there's still something left of you.  
“While some wonder, what's in a name- as you know, mine isn't James.”  
You frown. “No one likes a smart-ass, Tetch.”  
“Oh?”  
“Just let me have something of my own, for once. You're in every damn part of me.”  
“Oh,” he says again, putting his hands on your face, “but I belong to you, Nathaniel. In me, you have something all your own.”  
“You're nuts if you believe that,” you say, “She's in the ground, and you're still trying to fuck your sister.”  
He pinches his mouth into an unhappy pucker. “I think it's gone beyond that, don't you? While past ardors do remain, it's to each other we're now chained. I'm bound to you, Nathaniel. Alice is inside of you, and I will always, always love her, but I think we both need to admit that all of this is in the past.”  
“Guilty,” you whisper automatically, and feel your fingers twitch. You could strangle him. If you turned yourself in, they might even thank you.  
“Yes,” Tetch whispers, “we're both guilty.”  
It's a meaningless statement, but it touches you, somehow. You let him kiss you. You're not thinking of Jim anymore. Jim doesn't exist. He's a story you made up for yourself. When you were still stupid and pure enough to think that you couldn't fall any further. Now, of course, you know better. It's Tetch you want. This is your crime. When you open your eyes, he looks so good to you, you can't stand it. You don't know what to do first. You want, stupidly and without concept of time. You're always in a state of wanting him.  
And of satisfaction. He's right. Goddamn him, Tetch is right.  
He's right. You wrap his hair around your fist, and yank his head back. He winces, his brow briefly furrowing in pain, but he continues to smile. His toothy, horsey, ridiculous smile. You can't look away. His expression softens. You may be guilty, but he's always happy to absolve you. If that's what you feel like you need.  
But feeling bad has started to feel good. And he feels good underneath you, soft skin, beating heart; his cock hard against your hip. You think you'll stay guilty just a little bit longer.


	14. Thirst-quenching

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pairing is Alfred Pennyworth/Thomas Wayne.

He gets these moods. Has done, ever since he was a boy. No rhyme or reason. It must be like the wind changing. They abated for a while, when he was in the service, and for a bit after, so he thought he'd grown out of them.  
It's not that Alfred gets restless, precisely. When he was young, he thought this might be the case. By the time he was closing in on forty, though, he'd had enough travel for a lifetime. It wasn't that. It was almost like when he used to wake up in pain as a boy, feeling his bones creaking as he grew. It made him feel mean, but mainly, it made him feel helpless.  
He's just been hired, too. The possibility of failure makes it worse: if he loses this job, he has no idea what he'll do next. What can he do? It didn't need to be said, but he's de facto security. He might be something of a dog's body, taking care of various and sundry household chores, but he wasn't hired for his window-washing technique. He was hired because he's a dangerous man. This is what the Waynes need. They do their own laundry and polish their own shoes. He can call himself a butler, but everyone knows what he truly is.  
Yet- it's surprisingly pleasant to pretend. If Alfred loses that, he thinks with a vague but profound unease, he will surely be done for.  
So, he forces himself to bite his tongue, turn down his eyes, clench his fists, as he becomes increasingly irritable for no reason- and without needing a reason. It's easier to do around Mrs. Wayne- Martha- who's a gentle lady with a dry sense of humor; given, one thinks, to saying far less than she feels. Mr. Wayne, though, Thomas, holds back nothing. It's out of neither malice nor arrogance, as Alfred thought initially that it might be, but simple forthrightness and a desire for authenticity in all things that, somehow, has a special power to transfix Alfred in total annoyance. Alfred gets quieter, feels his mood sharpening. At night, he barely sleeps. He's always on duty, so he can't drink. Nothing can bring him any relief. Is it all falling down on him? Is he fraying?  
“Alfred,” says Thomas, “when you have a moment, could you come talk to me, please, in the library?”  
Alfred has a moment right now. He follows Thomas into the library. The door closes on them like that of a tomb.  
Thomas sits behind his desk, and offers Alfred the chair across from him. Alfred prefers to stand, his hands behind his back. The old posture is comforting. If his body knows what it's doing, maybe his mind will straighten itself out.  
“Have I or Martha done something wrong?” Thomas asks.  
Alfred blinks. Behind his back, one hand clasps the wrist of the other. “Wrong, sir?”  
“Yes, Alfred. To upset you in some way.”  
“No, sir.”  
“May I ask you a question?”  
“Yes, sir.”  
“If it's not us, what is upsetting you?”  
He can't be angry. He knows how to pretend that he feels nothing at all, that he's empty. “Why, nothing,sir. What gave you that idea?” He fixes his eyes on Thomas', daring him to answer.  
“You're walking around here like you have a chip on your shoulder. You give monosyllabic answers. You're curt, sometimes even brusque. I've seen you roll your eyes. Are you not happy here?”  
“Happy, sir?”  
“In your position, here. I understand that this is quite different from the life you led before, and that it's your first job as a civilian. Do you miss the armed forces? Is it a matter of adjustment? Martha and I want to help, but you must tell us what you need. We don't want to lose you, Alfred. Where else are we going to find someone who can field strip a rifle and make a perfect cup of tea?” He smiles.  
“What I need, sir?” Alfred asks quietly. He wants to look down, but he forces himself to hold Thomas' gaze.  
“Yes. Please, be candid with me, Alfred. We trust you. I'm asking you to trust us.”  
“Well, that's the thing, isn't it?” Alfred finds himself saying. It's like the words are being funneled into him, from somewhere else. “You're my employer. I can't trust you, not in the way that you mean.”  
“I see.”  
Alfred sighs. “It's not something I can explain easily. Or even at all. Once- I thought it was wanderlust. I couldn't sit still. I'd go out looking for trouble. Usually found it, too. Somehow, it helped. Later on, in the service, I felt all right. For years, I was fine.”  
“Military discipline,” Thomas says. Alfred doesn't know how he looks when Thomas says it, but whatever Thomas sees changes something in him. “You felt better being told what to do.”  
“Yes,” Alfred says. It's the truth. It's not his fault that Thomas somehow pulled it out of thin bloody air.  
“What else?”  
“What else, what?”  
“What else makes you feel better?”  
As though in a dream, Alfred keeps talking. “I knew what was expected of me, and what would happen if I stepped out of line. It felt good to be told to do something, and to do it right. It felt good to do something wrong and be punished. It was like order was restored to the world.”  
“I see.”  
Somehow, Alfred believes that he does. That he sees this, and into Alfred, and through Alfred. He's not just naked under Thomas' gaze, he's flayed and splayed. Yet, he lives, for being cut apart. His heart beats, and kisses the air.  
“Will you meet me here again, tomorrow afternoon? At four?”  
“Yes, sir.”  
“Good. Thank you, Alfred.”  
“Thank you, sir,” he says automatically, and leaves Thomas at his desk. Once he leaves the library, it's as though he's started awake. What could Thomas be thinking? Never mind that-- what is Alfred thinking?

It's tempting to give it a miss. When Thomas questions him, he'll say that he was busy, lost track of time. He'll be very contrite, and try to do better, and Thomas will forget. They'll remain employer and employee. Instead of- what? Where is Thomas maneuvering them both, and to what end? As the moments tick down toward four, Alfred's resolved that he'll appear as summoned, but perhaps, late. Just a few minutes late. Just to make a point. Which is? That he's not to be trifled with. That whatever he is, he has a mind of his own. His own will. His own heart. These might be warped beyond repair, but they must still be treated with respect. Of course, Thomas will be annoyed, but that's life, isn't it? The harder you try to control something, the less control you have. Whether you're king of the castle, or the man who rakes the leaves.  
He doesn't, though, he finds, want to annoy Thomas. Thomas, who's been so kind, if a bit awkward. It's not really something he can help, Alfred supposes. He told Thomas, however obscurely, what was troubling him, and Thomas took it in his stride. He is a doctor, after all. Maybe there's been a cure, all along. Maybe the spell can be broken.  
He turns up early. Not so early, though, that Thomas will think that he's been neglecting his duties. He waits until four on the dot to tap at the library door. Thomas bids him entire. He closes the door behind him.  
“Would you please lock it, too?” Thomas asks. A thrill runs through Alfred's body.  
He stands in front of Thomas' desk. Upon it rest two great volumes.  
“Would you stand in the corner?” he asks.  
Alfred does.  
“A little bit back,” says Thomas, “You need to be able to extend your arms in both directions.”  
Alfred adjusts his position, raises his arms.  
Thomas comes, and places one of the books upon his outstretched hand. Then, the other.  
“This is how they used to punish us when I was in school.”  
“And for what am I being punished?” Alfred asks with some effort.  
“I'll think of something. Ask me again, later. Now, don't speak, and I'll tell you when your time is up.”  
Alfred bows his head to show that he understands.  
His arms ache and begin to weary. He forces the feeling away. He's surprised by how easily it goes. How easily all of it goes, feeling and thought, both, leaving him blank. Utterly clean and without defect. The pain returns, in a different form, twisting and fine. Alfred lets it come, now, and fill up his empty places. He wants to let his arms drop, but he doesn't. With each second that he refuses himself, there builds an exquisite feeling in his sinews. He forces himself to breathe slowly and evenly, to remain quiet. It's unbearable. So, he bears it.  
When Thomas tells him that he can stop, he forces himself to composure, and takes the books back to Thomas' desk. He lets them go, and his nerves sing. He breathes out audibly. He wants Thomas to hear it.  
“What shall I do, now, sir?” he asks.  
“That's fine for today,” Thomas says absently, then thanks him, and makes an appointment for the next day. That night, Alfred can't sleep, for wondering what this means.  
Again, he holds the books. It's longer, this time. His mind pours out, and he's left without a care in the world. Like the day before, he's dismissed politely. The sky doesn't fall; the firmament remains. He sleeps that night, deeply and dreamlessly.  
The next day, he stands at attention for an hour before Thomas' desk while Thomas does paperwork.  
The day after that, he stands next to Thomas, his hands out to hold the files that Thomas reviews when he's done with them. He forgets himself, and clears his throat. Still looking at his work, Thomas frowns. Once he's finished, he runs the sharp edge of a sheet of paper across Alfred's fingertip. Blood fills the cut like a slowly opening eye showing its iris.  
“I need silence when I'm working,” Thomas says.  
“Understood, sir,” says Alfred, surprised at how contented he sounds.  
Thomas gives him a sticking plaster, and thanks him.  
The next day, Alfred is totally silent.  
The day after that, he coughs- it sounds, even to him, far too loud to be unintentional- he worries- but whatever Thomas thinks, he raps Alfred hard on the knuckles with the metal handle of a letter opener.  
“Alfred,” he admonishes gently, “you need to be quiet.”  
Breathing in deeply through his nose, he closes his eyes against the pain.  
Thomas frowns. “Was that too much?”  
“What? No, sir; just enough.”  
“You must tell me if it is.”  
“I will, sir.”  
“Do you know what a safeword is?”  
“I'm familiar, sir.”  
“Do you have one?”  
“It's really not necessary. I'm not given to voicing objections lightly.”  
“No. I don't suppose you are. If you ever want to stop, though, you can call me by my first name. You wouldn't do that ordinarily, so I'll know that I've gone too far.”  
“Yes,” says Alfred, then “sir,” to show Thomas that Thomas is correct. That he knows Alfred. That he's been right, this whole time.  
“Put out your hand,” says Thomas. Alfred does, and is rapped upon the knuckles again. It's softer, this time, playful. Warmth flows outward, behind his ribs. Later, he presses his fingers into the places where he was injured. For a long time, in bed, in the dark, he holds that hand in the other.  
He wonders how long they can go on this way. Will Martha start to suspect? Or is she, perhaps, in the know? And suspect what? Thomas never touches Alfred with his hands. He never says anything inappropriate. If he intuits what Alfred's feeling, he keeps this to himself. He is, for lack of a better word, professional. Alfred could be his patient. A doctor doesn't get a thrill from what he does with his patients. It's possible- it is, in fact, likely, that Thomas derives no pleasure whatsoever from handling whatever part of Alfred it is that he's operating upon.  
As soon as he thinks this, Alfred regrets it.  
He's a fool. Thomas is a good man. Odd, but decent. He understands things that most people don't, but that hardly makes him complicit. There's one player in this game, and it's Alfred. It's always just been Alfred.  
It makes him sad. It makes him ashamed. It's lost its fun. Of course, Thomas takes one look at him, and sees that something isn't right. And Alfred is again bare and filleted on the slab, for Thomas to examine. Only this time, it's not intimate and cozy. Thomas sees all of him, and he, for his part, is keenly aware that he can see none of Thomas. It's all Alfred's fault.  
Thomas smiles sunnily. “Do you mean to carry all of the world's weight on your shoulders, or is there room for someone else under there?”  
“Pardon, sir?” says Alfred, because he's weary of understanding and being understood.  
“Would you like to tell me what's wrong?” he asks gently.  
“Not a thing, sir.”  
Thomas is quiet for a long time. Alfred waits for him. Finally, Thomas says, “I don't think I'll be needing you this afternoon.”  
All Alfred can say is, “What?”  
“I don't think I'll be needing you this afternoon.”  
He can't believe that he's being punished. For this. And in this way. He makes himself say, “Very good, sir,” and close the library door quietly.  
In his room, he puts his fist through a pane of glass in the window. Luckily, it's early, so the security system isn't yet armed. He allows himself a moment of steaming impotently, savoring the pain and bleeding on the carpet before he surveys the damage. With a hand made steady by practice, he stitches the wound, then bandages it. Fortunately, it's only after that his hand begins shaking, as he realizes what he's actually done. He begins to breathe heavily.  
He forces himself to calm down. It's not so dire as all of that, he scolds himself. The stain hasn't set, so the blood comes out of the carpet. The glass fell into the hedge, and can be picked up the next time he has occasion to go outside. He closes and latches the shutters, testing their strength and finding it satisfactory. It's then a matter of calling a repairman without being overheard, promising him twice his fee if he's there before dark. Alfred lets the man in silently, and shuffles him to his room as though they were trysting. The repairman works efficiently, and leaves with even more than Alfred promised, tip included.  
It's a satisfying venture. He's gotten away with it, he thinks, latching the front door, and turning around. To his credit, he doesn't make a sound when he realizes that, perhaps not all but certainly enough has been taken in by the eyes and ears of Martha Wayne.

Alfred will not break. He has never, in his life, broken. He's never grassed, and he's never betrayed a confidence, and he's never given himself away. If Thomas Wayne wants to know the truth, it's up to him to apply his intellect to the question. For Alfred, though, mum is the word.  
This strange melancholy makes it easier to get on with things. He knows it's hopeless, but he must carry on. These twin points of certainty guide him like stars through each day to the next.  
It is, though, with terrible joy, that he receives Thomas' summons. He goes back to the library. He hasn't spent more than a minute there in two week's time, and the smell immediately takes him back.  
“We can't go on this way,” Thomas says.  
“No, sir, we can't.” Thomas can fire him. Thomas can kill him, for all Alfred cares. Alfred's gone this whole time without saying a word. Whatever happens next, it isn't Alfred, but Thomas. Finally, Alfred will see something of what Thomas is made of.  
“I think I've been unfair to you.”  
“Unfair, sir?” His heart beats faster.  
“I failed to take into account the fact that you're a very private person. If you don't wish to tell me something, it's not right for me to try to compel you to. Can you forgive me?”  
Alfred hesitates, but finally, clears his throat, and says, “Why, yes. Of course, sir.”  
“Would you say it, please?”  
His voice catches in his throat, but he forces it out. “I forgive you, sir,” he rasps, barely above a whisper.  
“Would it be all right if we resumed?”  
Alfred clears his throat. “Yes, sir.”  
“I think that we'll have to make up for lost time, though.”  
“Yes, sir, I think we will.”  
“Would it be going too far if I asked you to strip to the waist?”  
“Not in the least, sir.”  
“Please do so.”  
It's tempting to rush, but Alfred knows that this is meaningless unless he takes his time. He doesn't have to look at Thomas to know that Thomas is watching him. As he turns down his eyes to unbutton his waistcoat, he can feel Thomas' eyes on him, warm pressure like steam in the bath. The cool air of the library brings his skin to life. He feels a strange tenderness.  
“Turn around,” says Thomas.  
Alfred turns, hears the jingle of metal. He braces his hands against the bookcase. The first lash catches him on the left shoulder; the second, on his right. Then, slightly lower down, hard enough to knock the breath out of him. He lets his body reel with the blows, but remains silent. The pain is exquisite, sharp and ardent, mellowing into a wet ache that Alfred wants to grab with his fists and hold onto forever. They're good, solid lashes, but Thomas knows what he's doing; none of them could do serious damage. He stays well above Alfred's kidneys; angles the belt to cause bleeding above the skin, not under it. He doesn't want to hurt Alfred, not like that. He's taking care. Fleetingly, giddy, bloody drunk with it, Alfred thinks, This is perfect. How many blows come, he doesn't know, but it's over precisely when it should be. He's breathing heavily, his body aches. He's overwhelmed by the feeling that he's finally been allowed to lay down a burden.  
Thomas says his name, and dazed, he turns. The belt hangs from Thomas' hand, now inert, like a freshly killed snake. Thomas approaches him, looks into his eyes for a long time. He places his hands on Alfred's waist, bows his head. Involuntarily, Alfred's head falls back. He feels the heat of Thomas' mouth against his throat. Thomas could bare his teeth, bite him. All the way through skin and tissue, severing the artery. Kill him, if that were what Thomas wanted. Smiling, Alfred breathes in deeply. Whatever happens next, it's what Alfred wants, too, even if it is, however improbably, death. If that's what Thomas wants. It's for Thomas to dispose of Alfred. However he will.  
Yet, Alfred's still surprised, so surprised that he must sigh, trembling under Thomas' hands, when Thomas, soft and hot and wet, opens his mouth against the place where Alfred's pulse sounds, and kisses him.


	15. Cool-living

Oswald's tired again. Though, when is he not? It's been this way for days. He'll allow Edward to do things to him, as long as he doesn't have to exert himself. It's not without its charm, and Edward tries to be patient, but-  
You want to be wanted. He wants Oswald to want him like he wants Oswald.  
“I want to try something different,” he says, sounding hatefully petulant to himself, but unable to change the slant of his voice.  
Oswald narrows his eyes. “Like what?”  
The words come before he think about how they'll be received, or if they even make sense. “I want you to pretend that I'm dead.”  
Oswald laughs. Edward clenches his eyes shut, forces himself to concentrate on his breathing.  
“I'm sorry,” Oswald says, then again bubbles with laughter. “I'm sorry.”  
“I don't see what's so funny about that.”  
“If I were going to pretend that you were dead, I'd just rob you, then call in an anonymous tip about a body. That's not what you meant, though, is it?”  
“No.”  
“So, what do you want, then?”  
“I could sedate myself, and then you could do whatever you wanted to me.”  
“But how would you know?”  
“What?”  
“How would that get you off? You'd be unconscious.”  
Edward had considered- but ultimately dismissed this. It's a pleasure that's not mechanical but intangible. He would wake up, changed, not knowing exactly what Oswald had done to his body while he slept. Trusting Oswald would be the wellspring of his pleasure; danger melting into justified faith. It would be better than sex. Oswald can't understand this, though, and must be made to understand. Otherwise, nothing will happen. “Oh, you're right.”  
But Oswald sighs. “I guess if that's what you want, we can try it.”  
“Thank you,” Edward says, so earnestly that he shocks himself.  
“Yeah, sure,” Oswald mutters, “No problem.”  
There's danger in another respect, as well. Before they do anything, he lies in an ice cold bath until he can no longer tolerate it, feeling very small and impossibly naked. He closes his eyes, and imagines being on the open ocean, an immense shape gliding beneath him. He trembles. The sedative will lower his blood pressure, and suppress his involuntary urge to shiver. Oswald's been instructed to warm him afterwards, but to call for medical intervention only if it's truly necessary.  
“I'm not in a hurry to do that, either, believe me,” he says.  
Edward lies down on top of the sheets naked. The sedative's beginning to take effect. His limbs feel like a puppet's with the strings cut. Oswald's on top of him. He kisses him, amusingly chastely. Of course, Edward doesn't kiss back.  
“This is so weird,” Oswald grumbles. Edward wants to talk to him, to comfort or to admonish, but of course, dead people don't talk.  
Oswald continues to kiss him,teenage Kewpie doll kisses with a closed, dry mouth, pat pat against Edward's slack lips. The sedative pushes him far from here like a croupier's crook.  
“This is so weird,” Oswald hisses irritably, loosening his tie. He runs his hands up Edward's belly, still ticklish, though Edward's muscles are kept from tensing.  
Finally, Oswald makes a disgusted sound, and gets off of Edward. He pulls the blankets around Edward, covering him completely, except for his face. Edward thinks of mummies and death masks. The warmth is merciful, loving.  
“Screw this,” says Oswald, far more angrily than the situation merits. “If you want to play these kinds of games, find someone else to play them with.” Edward remains silent and still. Oswald says his name. The concern in his voice is so pleasing. He checks Edward's pulse, finds a small mirror, and holds it up to his nose.  
“Fuck you,” Oswald says, “I'm going out.” Edward hears Oswald's uneven steps around the apartment as he turns off the light and locks the door behind himself.  
Now, Edward is completely alone. He's warm, but he's really colder than ever. It shocks him how comforting he finds this. The living world is outside. Wherever Oswald is going, there will be people, loud and hot with life. None of them will know that Edward exists, remote and unexplored. Strangely, Edward thinks with no emotion, this is exactly as it should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story takes place within the continuity of my series, "My Wife and My Dead Wife". The pairing is Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma.


	16. Ever-giving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end-- at last, at last, at last. This story is a re-imagining of Frank Gordon's terrible last scene in "These Dark and Delicate Obsessions". Here, he still goes out with a bang, but a far better time is had by all. The pairing is Frank Gordon/Jim Gordon, and it incorporates the events of "Like the Fretful Porpentine".

Frank picks Jim up off the floor. Offers him a chair. Gives him a handkerchief for his nose. Pours him a drink.   
“Do you want some ice, for your head?” Frank asks.  
“No,” Jim says, slumped over his drink, “No, thank you.”  
Frank gets it for him, anyway, holds it against Jim's head, though Jim tries to fidget away, until Jim huffs and holds it there, himself.  
The Gordons are a civilized family.  
“You'll pardon me if I need a moment to digest this,” Jim rumbles.  
“You mean, decide if you believe me.”  
“That, too.”  
“Which part?”  
“Any of it- all of it- Why should I trust anything you say, after-”  
There's a lot packed into the one word. Frank refills Jim's glass. It's then that he realizes that he doesn't have a drink of his own. It hits him like a cold shock. As he pours one, his hand shakes. He knows that Jim's watching him as he throws it back, but he doesn't care. Now that Jim knows what he is, no one has to pretend anymore.  
“I trusted you,” Jim murmurs, “I believed everything you told me.”  
“So, believe this. And believe me when I say that I haven't lived a day not hating myself for what I had to do.”  
“You had a choice,” Jim says, but it's without venom. His voice is totally cold, ice and an ice pick.  
“And you don't know how much I wish I'd taken the alternative. If you want to kill me, Jim, go ahead. You know everything I know. I'm useless to you, now. Just do me a favor, and let me finish the bottle.”  
“I'm not going to kill you,” Jim rasps, “I need to think.”  
They continue to drink in silence. Jim takes out his phone, and calls Barbara Kean, the fiancée turned criminal ingenue, has a terse conversation with her, then holds out his glass. “She'll take care of it,” Jim says flatly.  
Silence falls again. He's starting to believe that Jim will actually kill him once the bottle's empty. At least it'll be quick. Jim might have a hard-on for revenge, but he has even more of a hard-on for justice. Torture would offend him on an aesthetic level. Frank smiles.  
“What's so funny?” Jim says.  
“What? Oh, I was just thinking that when you kill me, it'll be quick. Of course, by saying that, I'm guaranteeing that you'll take your time.”  
“I'm not going to kill you.”  
“I almost believe you, Jim.”  
“I'm still arresting you.”  
“Of course you are.”  
Jim frowns over his drink.  
Outside, the light leaves the sky. The room turns gray.  
Jim stands. The glass hits the table next to him, too hard.  
“Get up,” he says.  
Frank can humor him. He stands.  
Jim's eyes have lost focus. Either he's swaying, or Frank is.  
Frank can barely feel his face, but he's dimly aware that he smiles. “Why don't we go to bed together one last time? Twenty-five to life is a long time to wait for a fuck. I might not make it. If the Court doesn't get to me, old age will.”  
Jim tells him to shut up, but he doesn't move. He doesn't draw his gun or take out his handcuffs again. Finally, he says, “Where?”  
“Why, my very own bed, Jim.”  
Jim makes a defeated sound, looks to his sides as though either searching for a way out or making sure that nobody's watching. He wraps his arms around Frank, stands on his toes and leans his whole body against him, kisses him, desperate and breathless, thick with whiskey. Frank holds his hips, pulls him in closer, still. Runs a hand up under his jacket over his belly. Feels him draw in a breath, tremble as he exhales. He yanks off Jim's tie, unbuttons his collar, pushes back Jim's head and kisses his neck. Jim's breathing like an animal, his chest heaving.  
“It's all right,” Frank finds himself saying. He almost believes it. He feels muddled and soft on the inside, and Jim is warm and shaking in his arms. And Jim lets Frank lead him to Frank's bedroom, where it's darker, still. They lie down on the bed, fully clothed, Jim's legs tangled with his.  
“I want you,” Jim says redundantly, his eyes clenched shut as though he were in pain.  
“I know,” says Frank, his mouth on Jim's throat. “I want you, too,” he says, because it's only fair.  
And it's not a lie. There are no more lies left to tell. It's like being dead, he feels so fucking free. Nothing can touch him anymore. Just this.  
He undoes Jim's pants, pulls then down over his hips. He takes out Jim's cock, touches him, kisses his belly, the bare tops of his thighs. He's sliding, almost falling off of the bed. He tells Jim to sit up, move to the edge, and Frank kneels on the floor between Jim's knees. Here, like this, he's all but enclosed, hidden way from the world. He steadies himself with one hand on Jim's knee, and drags the other over Jim's body as he sucks his cock. He barely has to do anything; Jim moves his hips, his cock slowly going in and out of Frank's mouth. His hands are in Frank's hair. The sounds he's making. Jesus Christ. By the time Jim comes in Frank's mouth, Frank's heart is pounding in his head. He's that weird, swampy kind of turned on he gets when he's very drunk. He wants everything, but anything could get him off. He doesn't even care if he does get off. It's almost better to let it keep hurting him like this, making him pant and sweat. It's humiliating. But Jim knows what he is, now. So, maybe Frank owes this to him.  
He swallows. Gets off of his knees. Has to steady himself against the bed before he climbs back up to Jim, now back on the bed where they started. They kiss for a long time, Jim's hands on him over his clothes. He rolls them, so that Jim is on top of him.  
“You can do whatever you want to me,” Frank says. He doesn't mean for it to sound so sad.  
“I don't want to hurt you,” Jim says.  
“Yes,” Frank smiles, “you do.”  
Jim frowns. “Is that what you want?”  
Frank shakes his head. “I want whatever you want to give me.”  
Jim strikes him, just once, a halfhearted rap of his knuckles across Frank's mouth. It's still enough to draw blood. Frank licks his lips. Jim kisses him, crushes his mouth against Frank's. He tears off Frank's jacket, his tie, his shirt. Draws rough hands and rough mouth over Frank's body. Frank hears the handcuffs before he sees them. He actually feels the blood wrenched through his veins, rushing down between his legs. He rubs against Jim as Jim cuffs one wrist to the headboard. Jim kisses him, more softly, now, like he's made it safe, made Frank safe to handle. He presses his hand between Frank's legs, traces the outline of his cock with his fingers; grips his balls through his pants. He touches him like that, slowly, excruciatingly. Frank can only let him. He has a hand free, but somehow, all he wants to do is let it rest on Jim's back, feeling the heat of his body through his clothes. He lets Jim drag him to orgasm this way, this long, slow, rough rub of his hand. It's devastating.  
Jim presses their bodies together, kisses his neck, his mouth. Then, he looks at Frank, his expression unreadable. He uncuffs Frank. Is Frank disappointed as he rubs the circulation back into his wrist?  
If he is, it doesn't last. After a second, Jim grasps both of his wrists, holds them against the headboard, and cuffs them to it. Jim stands, looks at Frank for a long moment. All Frank can do is stare back. Whatever happens to him now is what Jim wants to happen. Jim can kill him, or arrest him. Send him away. Frank might as well be dead. Nothing can touch him. Except Jim.  
The phone rings. Frank looks at it. Jim looks at Frank. With a shake of his head, Frank damns them both.  
Jim takes off his jacket.


End file.
